The Trials of Writing
by PyroStorm
Summary: The Ghost Writer was furious when Danny destroyed his new Christmas poem. But why was he so angry? Simple. He had quite a few problems while trying to write it ... [In Progress]
1. Finding Inspiration

This is going to be a series of _linked_ short chapters about the Ghost Writer, and some of the problems he faced while trying to write his first-ever christmas poem 'The Fright Before Christmas'. **I don't know how often I'll be able to update, though; school is about to begin again.** But I hope it'll be regular. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did actually writing it! (p.s. I hope you find it at least a little funny).

It's rated T because there's mentions of alcohol in this chapter and I want to be safe.

Disclaimer: Danny Phantom and it's characters don't belong to me.

* * *

It was quiet in this part of the Ghost Zone. 

Well, quiet if you counted someone yelling angrily as quiet.

The source of the noise was a grey-skinned man who, on first glance, seemed intent on wearing through the floor. On closer inspection he was revealed to be pacing (occasionally shouting his annoyance to no-one in particular).

Suddenly he stopped and stalked over to a sofa where he sat down sharply before grabbing a cushion. It wasn't anything special; the colour of mustard and disgustingly fluffy. Ghost Writer stared at it. And stared. And stared some more. After a few minutes (or seconds, he wasn't paying attention to the time) he bellowed in frustration and hurled the fluffy thing away from him – knocking several objects off a nearby tabletop in the process – before looking up at the ceiling and hissing "Give me inspiration!".

The ceiling didn't reply.

Ghost Writer stifled a shout and slumped down to the floor, gently tapping his head on a nearby table leg.

"Why" he said through gritted teeth "is it so difficult to find inspiration for a story, poem or and piece of literature?!"

He slumped further down towards the floor.

"Five months … five months and eight days _exactly_ with no idea what to write about …" he despaired.

After a few minutes of concentrated sulking, he raised his eyes and gazed miserably around the room before glancing at the objects knocked off the table earlier by the fluffy mustard monstrosity.

Sighing unhappily, he shuffled across to them and set about putting them back into place.

Plant pot … last year's Christmas party photo … tacky ornament won from the Halloween raffle …

Wait a moment … Christmas?

With an unusual feeling of urgency, he quickly found the photo and searched it for something, _anything_ unusual or out of place.

Disappointingly, it was the same as ever.

Skulker was still drunkenly singing karaoke in the background with Ember glaring at him.

Technus was pictured by the buffet table, sneaking up on Dora with a branch of mistletoe (if Ghost Writers memory remembered right, she had moved at the last minute sending Technus face first into a bowl of trifle much to Lunch Lady's disgust).

Desiree and Spectra were both shown to be over by the plug socket, no doubt intending to stop Skulker singing.

The Box Ghost was immortalised shouting about (what else?) boxes and how they should all fear his 'deadly' cardboard cubes (no-one had listened to him until he stole their presents and told them to listen or he'd squash the boxes and their contents. He was the most popular ghost that night).

Walker was frozen lecturing Johnny about bringing his motorbike into the hall.

Ghost Writer himself was still sitting on an abandoned sofa with Bertrand and Poindexter.

Kitty had been frightened by the Fright Knight crashing the door open, arms laden with various drinks (every kind – Ghost Writer suspected that the small alcohol shop floating nearby had made a rather nice profit that night).

Christmas … Fright ... Fright … Christmas …

A few images flickered into his head, ideas for a Christmas story – a poem! – or maybe just after, or maybe just before-

**The Fright Before Christmas!**

That was it! That would be his poems name! Finally, inspiration!

Grabbing the photo, he made a mad dash for his library and keyboard, stopping only to snatch a pen and a pad of paper. As he rocketed through the halls, he feverishly scribbled notes and story ideas down.

He reached the keyboard and threw everything down onto the smooth surface, grinning crazily. Nothing, absolutely _nothing_ was going to stand in the way of him writing his first-ever Christmas poem.

(Oh, how wrong that statement would turn out to be …)

But first, he needed a cup of coffee.

* * *

Some fanfic writers will probably be able to relate to a few of the Ghost Writers upcoming problems, I expect. 

As a side note, I think that Ghost Writer would be the kind of author that would get a little stressed if he couldn't find any inspiration for a long time. Hope that explains his behaviour a bit! Again, hope you liked!


	2. There's No Coffee!

**Sorry for taking so long to get this up! Not going to bore you with reasons why.**

**Thank you to Hordak's Pupil for reviewing!**

_Disclaimer: I don't own Danny Phantom and it's characters._

* * *

Ghost Writer strolled leisurely through the various corridors of his home, lost in thought about the Christmas poem he was soon to write. 

He had almost everything he needed; his keyboard, his notes, paper, and pens.

All he needed now was a hot cup of coffee in his favourite mug and he would be ready to begin the poem. Inwardly he smiled. He never could write or read a book without a good mug of strong coffee, occasionally with a spoonful of honey. He smiled outwardly now as he thought about it. It brought back memories, memories of when he was alive …

Ghost Writer was rudely snapped out of his self-induced trance by walking into a corner of a worktop, which prodded his stomach rather sharply with its pointy edge. After removing himself from the worktop and casting a venomous glare in its general direction, he filled a battered kettle with water and set it away to boil.

Quickly he moved about, gathering everything he would require for the perfect writing coffee. A spoon, a jar of honey, a small carton of milk, his favourite mug (with a chip in the top and the words 'MY coffee!' printed on it) and last, but certainly not least the wooden box in which he kept his coffee assembled themselves before the dented kettle like solders.

Humming quietly to himself and thinking about his new poem, he opened the lid of the coffee box-

And stared in a mixture of shock, anger and fear.

He was out of coffee. The sentence swam around in his head, driving all other thoughts away. He was_ out_ of **coffee.** There was no coffee in the box.

It was the quickest he'd ever moved. In a single bound he had crossed the room to the cupboard where he kept his coffee and wrenched the door off its hinges in his haste.

He began to scrabble through the various packets, jars and boxes. Tea (several kinds), sugar, sweeteners, gingerbread syrup (for Gingerbread lattes at Christmas), cinnamon sprinkles, the Box Ghost, chocolate shavings, a half-eaten packet of marshmal-

Finally his thoughts caught up with him. With a wordless roar he turned on the unfortunate Box Ghost, who promptly began to quiver fearfully and held up a small sachet of sugar as a shield. Just about every ghost had heard of the Ghost Writers tremendous fury when he had no coffee – after all, who could forget the incident on a late August night in '99 when Bertrand had put all of Ghost Writers coffee in the bin, claiming it was rubbish? (Bertrand had discovered that being beaten around the head by two encyclopaedias and the fifth Harry Potter book was not very fun)

"Where is it? _Where is it_?!" he roared. The Box Ghost continued to shiver in fear. Ghost Writer let out a mixture of a snarl and a whimper and glared even harder at him.

The Box Ghost managed to finally murmur a response. "A mouse ate it?" he offered timidly. Ghost Writer was about to offer a suitably sharp retort when a high-pitched squeaking was heard. He whipped his head around, green eyes blazing with fury-

Only to see a glowing blue-furred mouse sprinting around the kitchen floor, red eyes wide with energy. His anger dissolving, he turned back to the Box Ghosts shocked face (it was either because the Ghost Writer was now relatively calm or because a mouse had actually ate the coffee and was still moving) and with a pleading note in his voice asked "Then where can I get some coffee? And it **has** to have caffeine in it."

"I, the Box Ghost, believe that the Lunch Lady may have some of your caffeinated coffee" he stated in usual fashion (though not dropping his makeshift shield).

Ghost Writer threw the Box Ghost back into the cupboard and ran out, nearly tripping over the caffeine-high mouse in the process.

Box Ghost blinked before turning back to a box filled with tea.

"I shall free you from your leafy captors soon, lovely cubical box!"

* * *

Ghost Writer hurtled through the Ghost Zone towards the Lunch Lady's cafeteria, eyes narrowed with frustration So many ideas skimming around in his head, and yet he lacked the one thing that he wanted – no, _needed_ – to have when he wrote.

_Why does all the bad stuff happen to me? _He thought sadly. _First I can't get inspiration, then I find out there's no coffee! What's next?_

He suddenly winced in pain, partly because he got the feeling that Mr. Murphy had a warped sense of humour and partly because he'd flown straight into a large brick wall.

After peeling himself off of the wall, he floated over to a pair of worn cafeteria doors and hovered unsurely before them. In his haste to reach the heavenly drink known as coffee, he had forgotten some extremely important facts.

The Lunch Lady was frighteningly protective of her coffee. She could have mood swings in less than a second. And – horror of horrors – she might not actually _have_ any coffee.

Ghost Writer immediately shook his head. Of **course** the Lunch Lady would have coffee.

It was getting the coffee that was the problem.

* * *

**Hope you liked it!**


	3. Operation Coffee

**Chapter 3 has arrived (at last)! As always, I hope you enjoy. Sorry if this chapter seems a little forced or the writing style is odd, life's been out to get me the past few weeks. Enough of my blathering, but before the story;**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognise, be it Danny Phantom, Ghost Writer or whatever else it may be.**

* * *

Ghost Writer stared at the double doors of the ancient cafeteria. Beyond those old doors, a terrifying fire-breathing dragon jealously guarded a precious treasure – which he was insane enough to try and steal.

He scoffed slightly at his thoughts and moved to open a door. _Stop being dramatic_ he told himself sternly. _Save the drama for the poem._

A roar, seemingly of anger, drifted through the gap between the doors. Ghost Writer paused, hand just about to push the door. _Maybe the dragon part __**is**__ accurate …_

He took a deep breath (for reassurance; he **was** a ghost, after all) and eased the door open, wincing slightly when it creaked eerily. Ghost Writer knew that eerily creaking doors usually equalled something very bad happening in the near future.

No! He could not turn back now. The glorious, heavenly coffee was in there waiting for him to retrieve it. He could not disappoint it. That would be rude.

With that in mind (along with things such as _you are insane, get out of here!_) he floated through the doorway – and was immediately struck down with a dilemma.

_To close or not to close, what would be safer?_

Door open meant Lunch Lady might (knowing his luck; would) find it open, and figure out that someone was in her home; door closed meant if he needed to escape, he'd waste precious seconds opening the door and he'd kiss goodbye to his story and hello to the final afterlife.

Eventually he decided to leave the door open a couple of inches – that way, he could still leave _slightly_ unharmed and the Lunch Lady might only think a stray gust of wind opened it.

_The Box Ghost is the only one stupid enough to fall for that!_ a pessimistic voice shrieked in the back of his head. Ghost Writer blinked once or twice before floating deeper into the dragon's lair.

* * *

A few wrong turns and a savage attack from a mouldy cup later found Ghost Writer crouched at a doorframe, cautiously peeking around the edge. He was looking for the label with the divine word (coffee, of course. You were expecting something else?) while also trying to keep an eye out for a rampaging Lunch Lady armed with all manner of dangerous kitchen utensils (such as the fearsome spork). Needless to say, he ended up a little cross-eyed. 

A sharp clattering sound from behind a counter brought his attention (_very _quickly) back to the room. Ghost Writer waited fearfully, not daring to move in case he was spotted. A bellow of anger pierced the stale kitchen air from behind a nearby cabinet.

Ghost Writer made a not-so-dignified retreat to a little way down the corridor where he promptly sat down and hugged his knees, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

A ceramic pot flew past the open doorway, shortly followed by a cheese grater and a tacky decorative teapot. The scared spook brightened slightly. At least she wasn't throwing the -

A huge meat cleaver slammed into the doorframe, quivering menacingly. The ectoplasm drained out of Ghost Writer's face. _Oh dear_ is the theme of the words he thought at that moment.

The sound of a door slamming came from the room. Ghost Writer peeked slowly around the door frame, noting the absence of a very angry bi-polar ghost. He cautiously stuck one hand into the kitchen, waving it slightly as he did so.

His hand remained attached to him, and he relaxed slightly. He was safe for now. With that, Ghost Writer grinned insanely before diving behind a counter and began shuffling towards a pot emblazoned with the word coffee.

He snuck around to the pot, keeping low to the floor – just in case Lunch Lady felt the need to vent her anger in the kitchen again. He stopped and nervously glanced around to make sure the coast was clear.

It was.

Like lightening, he snatched the pot and flew out of the room, out of the corridors and then out into the green swirls of the Ghost Zone.

Well, that's how he hoped it would go.

Instead he tripped over his feet and slid across the worktop on his stomach, the coffee pot smashing into his nose before he fell off with an almighty _CRASH!_

Footsteps began to thunder down the hallway.

_At least my glasses aren't broken. _He thought dazedly. He frowned slightly and rethought that. _Yet._

Gently, he reached for the pot in the vain hope that he still might be able to get away from the Lunch Lady before she reached the kitchen and the coffee thief. His fingers grasped for the smooth surface. _Almost there…_ He grabbed the pot and his eyes lit up. _Success! Cue victory dance!_

A shoe crashed down on his arm, effectively cutting off all hopes of escape (well, if he went intangible he'd leave the coffee behind, and he was **not** about to do that) and his mental victory dance.

"And just **what** do you think you are _**doing**_!?" yelled the Lunch Lady. Ghost Writer's eardrums struggled to cope with the noise, and his brain with the fear it created.

"I, er, was looking for – um, no, wait, that's wrong… I-" Ghost Writer stuttered. Lunch Lady glared at him before hissing venomously "_you were trying to steal my coffee, weren't you?"_

Ghost Writer's mind was screaming for him to make up a completely believable and plausible excuse, but all he managed was a sheepish look of fear and slight embarrassment.

Lunch Lady snarled, eyes glowing. "Do you know what I'm going to do now?!" she screeched. Ghost Writer whimpered and curled himself up into a ball. Lunch Lady stepped off of his hand (_I can't feel my hand_!) and removed the coffee jar from his hand.

He couldn't take it anymore. So he took a page out of the Lunch Lady's book and had a mood swing. "I just wanted some coffee!" he bellowed before jumping up and ripping the pot away with his non-numb hand. Lunch Lady fell backwards in surprise, arms waving comically as Ghost Writer bounded over the counter where he stood cackling madly.

Lunch Lady looked at the Ghost Writer (or rather, his mop of scruffy black hair; the rest was obscured by the counter), and said "well, why didn't you ask for some? I would have given you some-"

Ghost Writer looked dumbfounded when she started to speak, as she was suddenly a 'kind grandma who bakes you cookies for no reason' person, and not an 'angry fire-breathing dragon ready to tear his head off' person. He took on a sheepish expression, radiating embarrassment. "May I please have some coffee?" He asked quietly, not noticing that he'd interrupted the Lunch Lady.

"Of course, dear, but-"

The lid slammed into the wall in his haste to get coffee, and Ghost Writer was faced with a painful feeling of familiarity.

"-I don't actually have any coffee."

The pot crashed to the floor, mercifully not breaking. Lunch Lady shook her head slightly. "Why do you think I was so angry, dear?" she enquired, a slight twinkle in her eye.

Ghost Writer numbly shook his head. "I-I'm sorry for disturbing you…I'll just g-go home now…" and with those words staggered out of the room.

There was a silence as he trudged down the halls, and the Lunch Lady shrugged and went about her business of ripping her home to pieces in anger.

A shout came from down the hallway Ghost Writer had disappeared to. "Mouldy cup on the rampage! **Mouldy cup on the rampage!**"

* * *

Ghost Writer trudged dejectedly to his home, moping and sulking and generally being a big bucket of misery. The only way that could truly describe the depression that poured off of him, would be to say that if Spectra was around, she wouldn't need to make anyone miserable for fifty years. 

He walked on and on, not noticing a strange white light filtering from behind him. It was only when he turned around when warmth spread across his back, that he saw something that made his eyes sparkle and his body and mind fill with joy.

Before him was a Costa Coffee with the sign; _A free bag of coffee beans with every large Cappuccino_ outside.

Ghost Writer shed a tear in happiness, raced inside and elbowed Poindexter out of the way.

"One large Cappuccino, please."

* * *

**Hope you liked!**

**Thank you to **_Hordak's Pupil, purple almighty and witchdoctor42_** for reviewing the last chapter!**


	4. Interlude  In The Coffee Shop

**This wasn't originally going to be in the story, but as I've got a lot of important exams & deadlines coming up, was mauled by a plot bunny for this (end bit), am having trouble writing Chapter 4 and have been attacked by MORE evil bunnies this is being uploaded - I didn't to be away until January! Sorry if it's not very good. But I hope you enjoy anyway (and that I can write Chapter 4 soon).**

**Disclaimer; As usual, I don't own anything that you recognise.**

* * *

Ghost Writer let out a contented sigh as he sipped the Cappuccino, lazily watching his surroundings. The coffee shop wasn't very busy; there were still plenty of seats around. Ghost Writer smiled slightly. It was amazing what spooks the presence of a coffee shop brought out from their lairs. 

A few of the female ghosts had obviously decided to meet up for coffee; Ember, Desiree, Spectra and Kitty were chatting away in a corner about anything and everything they could think of (Ghost Writer caught a few snatches of conversation; mainly the names 'Bertrand' 'Skulker' 'Johnny' and the words 'idiot' 'useless' and 'jerk'.)

Skulker was sulking in the corner, glaring at his drink as though it was the bane of his existence. Ghost Writer wasn't about to enquire about what was wrong (though the ladies' conversation gave him a good idea); those weapons concealed in Skulker's armour _hurt_.

Box Ghost was by the counter, eyeing the various boxes stored along the shelves (Ghost Writer failed to notice his tea box – minus tea - resting by the Box Ghost's feet), but surprisingly behaving himself. Moments later, he was presented with two hot drinks and a bag of coffee and he flew out of the store at breakneck speed, almost smashing into a cloaked figure.

Ghost Writer blinked as the master of time himself, Clockwork, floated silently into the shop. Conversation slowly ground to a halt as people took notice of the adult ghost approaching the counter, amid whispers of "why isn't he changing age?" (Not many people knew that Clockwork could stop his age-shifting, if only temporarily. Ghost Writer did – he'd read it in a book when on a trip with a few other ghosts; a library in Germany if he remembered correctly…)

He hovered before the counter, and spoke in his calm voice. "A regular Cappuccino please."

A few cheers went up, and conversation resumed. Clockwork waited patiently before collecting the drink (and storing the coffee beans on a hook on his belt) and floating quietly over to Ghost Writer's table, much to the writer's surprise.

"Ghost Writer. I feel I should warn you about certain undesirable futures that have been presented to me concerning your new poem, The Fright Before Christmas."

Ghost Writer looked taken aback. Clockwork continued. "One is that your poem is destroyed, and you spend a long time in Walker's prison." Ghost Writer opened his mouth to object. "The second" Clockwork was _not_ going to be interrupted "is that your poem will become an instant success and you will receive hundreds of thousands of oranges from fans-"

There was a thud as Ghost Writer fell off of his chair in fear. "Of course, there are more preferable futures which I won't tell you. But heed my warning, Ghost Writer." Clockwork seemed to grow taller "only misery and pain will be your companions if you continue writing this poem. Good day." And with that, the cloaked spook swept out of the door, sipping his drink while he did so.

Ghost Writer blinked slightly before frowning in steely determination. As much as he hated going against someone with far superior knowledge, he was **not** about to give up writing The Fright Before Christmas. No, he had suffered too much and come to far to turn back (_you haven't started writing yet, you fool!_ A voice snapped in his head).

Ghost Writer ignored it and finished his coffee. "Nothing is going to stop me" he whispered in promise to no-one in particular.

* * *

Clockwork sighed as he watched the Ghost Writer float home happily. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you." He muttered, taking a gulp of the coffee. 

A cough came from behind the now-elderly ghost. Clockwork grimaced. _Just relax. He's just doing this to irritate you._

"And **where** is my Mocha?" Clockwork turned around to glare at a battered Fenton Thermos resting on a shelf, where the voice had come from.

"I didn't get you one. I never will. So shut up and let me get on with my afterlife." Clockwork replied angrily (obviously, he was sick and tired of listening to the psychotic ghost talk or hurl abuse at anything he could think of). Clockwork obviously needs to wait until the caffeine kicks in before he talks to someone, otherwise he gets stressy.

There was a tense silence, and Clockwork thanked everything he could think of that the evil ghost had shut up.

"Not even a normal coffee?"

"Shut up!"

* * *

**Thank you to **Hordak's Pupil, Tie-dyed Trickster & witchdoctor42 **for reviewing Chapter 3!**


	5. The Keyboard Breaks

_Not much to say at the moment, so just the disclaimer and then it's on with the story!_

_I don't own Danny Phantom and never will. Disclaimed._

* * *

Ghost Writer let a contented sigh pass through his lips as he wandered around his home. Finally, _finally, _he had coffee. Granted, he'd had to go through the Box Ghost, an angry cafeteria worker and some scary prophecies to get it, but it was coffee and therefore worth it in his eyes.

His eyes gleamed and a grin spread across his face as the kitchen door came into view. He gripped the bag of coffee beans tightly in his left hand and strode towards the door, throwing it open when he reached it and nearly skipping over to the kettle with happiness.

However, the caffeine-high mouse from earlier was still zooming around the floor at an incredible pace, and Ghost Writer was far too wrapped up in his own little coffee-loving world to notice.

* * *

One bruised nose later, Ghost Writer sat down at his keyboard, ready to begin writing the Fright before Christmas. Smiling happily, he set the mug of coffee on a nearby table (within arms reach of course) and started typing away happily.

The time passed quickly, with Ghost Writer stopping every once in a while to sip at his coffee.

It was at one of these times that he brought the mug to his lips and found that all the coffee was gone from the cup. Sighing and half-glaring at the mug for it _daring_ to run out of coffee, he got up and rushed away to the kitchen.

* * *

Ghost Writer poured the boiling water into the mug, absent-mindedly stirring it as he added the milk and honey. Sighing slightly, he wandered over to a cupboard to put the honey and coffee away. Upon opening the cupboard, he was promptly showered by an avalanche of teabags.

Blinking in surprise, he stood up and gazed at the sea of teabags surrounding him. He groaned in defeat – he'd have to clean this up before he could start writing again! He reached for the tea box, only to discover it wasn't there. A vague memory of the Box Ghost hiding in the cupboard floated through his mind, and he mentally smacked himself.

_Well, at least I know where it is _he mused as he unceremoniously shoved the teabags into the cupboard. _And I know it'll be taken care of. Like he'd let anything happen to a 'precious cubical box!'._

The last teabag was thrown in, the door shut and Ghost Writer began to walk back to his coffee. He was about to pick it up when he had a sudden thought about a new plot twist for The Fright Before Christmas.

He seized his mug of coffee and bolted through the corridors, and charged through the door of his study to where he could see his keyboard.

His foot caught the edge of a rug and he slipped.

The mug flew out of his hand.

All Ghost Writer could do was watch as the coffee spilled out of the mug, almost in slow-motion, and splash all over keyboard – the screens, the keys, everywhere.

He panicked and scrabbled towards it. _Its fine, nothing's wrong, it'll still work – _

The keyboard made a hissing noise and a few sparks shot out of it before the words vanished. Ghost Writer cautiously approached it and pressed a few of the keys, praying that it wasn't going to –

A few more sparks leapt out from the spaces between the keys, and smoke began to fill the room. Ghost Writer decided that now would be a good time to get out of the room and promptly ran out.

* * *

Once the smoke had stopped gushing out of the keyboard and the room had stopped smelling of fried electronics, Ghost Writer managed to find the inner courage to go and inspect the damage (but only after another strong coffee to brace him – and a biscuit).

When he approached the keyboard there was one thing that he noticed immediately; he simply couldn't repair it. There was no question about that. He let himself slump down to the floor to mope for a few minutes, before an incredibly obvious solution wandered into his head.

The keyboard was a fusion of ectoplasmic stuff (he didn't know the technical term) and electrical stuff, right? So surely the so-called 'Master of Technology' could fix it …

Ghost Writer mumbled unhappily beneath his breath as he stood and dusted his clothes. He never had much patience for Technus, but he was going to have to be calm and polite for Technus to help him.

_Joy, _he thought. _Not only am I in mental pain from my keyboard being broken, I'm also miserable._ _What great companions._

Ghost Writer glanced at an old clock hanging on the wall before scowling and walking out of the door, but then stopped and turned around to address the clock.

"Don't say anything, you insufferable know-it-all."

The clock struck eleven and started chiming insultingly.

* * *

_Hope you liked!_

_Thank you to **witchdoctor42 **and** Manyara** for reviewing! (Manyara, I forgot to say thanks for reviewing Ch.3 so thank you for that too!)_


	6. Technus

**This is the longest chapter so far, it being just about five pages in Word. Anyhow, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: As usual, I don't own Danny Phantom.**

* * *

Ghost Writer hovered uncertainly front of the coffee shop, clutching another cup of coffee in his hands. He hated to admit it, but he had no idea where Technus actually 'lived'. He resisted the urge to hit his head on the glass window behind him with some difficulty.

_One problem after another … this never happened with any of the other things I wrote! But then again, this must mean that The Fright Before Christmas is going to be brilliant!_ He momentarily lost himself in the mental image of the poem finished at last, before snapping back to the harsh reality that, at this rate, he wasn't **going** to finish it. He mumbled something about how luck just didn't like him and gazed miserably at his reflection in the coffee's surface.

"Looking at coffee while miserable. That's against the rules."

Ghost Writer resisted the urge to hit the speaker.

"Not acknowledging a warden when they're talking to you. That's against the rules."

He gripped the Styrofoam cup tighter.

"Deliberately disregarding a senior officer's warnings. That's-"

"**Let me guess? Against the rules!" **Ghost Writer shouted, flinging his coffee straight at Walker. He must have been mad to give up his coffee.

Walker stared at his white suit, now complete with a lovely stain. He looked back up at Ghost Writer. "Throwing a drink onto a person's freshly dry-cleaned clothing. That's against the rules."

Ghost Writer just stared. "No it's not."

Walker retrieved a now-soggy notebook from his pocket. He then fished out a pen and scribbled something, before shoving the notebook in Ghost Writer's face. Ghost Writer read it out to make sure he wasn't hallucinating, "'Rule number 893; no security personnel must wear a tutu to drill practice.' How does that relate to me?"

Walker blinked before looking at the notebook. "I meant the other rule!"

"'Rule number I-don't-know-because-I've-lost-count; Drinks and food must not be spilt on freshly dry-cleaned clothes.' Well that makes more sense." Ghost Writer heaved a silent sigh of relief at a semi-sane rule. After all, he needed the semi-sanity after his recent trials …

That snapped his mind back to his mission. "Walker, I realise I'm being rude, but where is Technus' home?"

Walker stopped in the middle of writing something. "Keyboard broken?" A quick nod from Ghost Writer "Makes sense now. Go towards Skulker's island, left just before there and keep going straight on. It should be one of the doors near to where the Fright Knight's castle is."

"Thank you!" Ghost Writer sped off into the green and black swirls of the Ghost Zone, Walker shouting after him "speeding is against the rules!" Well, he would have said that if he wasn't hit in the face by a flyer.

"Littering; that's against-" he peered closer at the flyer. "Baking competition in one week's time; all welcome. Sign up at the old hall before to enter." The Warden narrowed his eyes and adjusted his hat. "Not letting me know about the annual baking competition; that's against the rules." Walker stormed off towards the old hall (often used for parties and festivities, all against the rules unless he was invited), determined to keep his title of 'Best Baker' for a fourth year running.

* * *

Ghost Writer sped through the Ghost Zone, Walker's direction's flickering through his head swiftly. Skulker's island soon came into view, but by the looks of things the Ghost Zone's 'greatest hunter' was currently out – probably good, considering he'd just uprooted several trees as he flew past.

He turned left as instructed, then carried on flying. Pretty soon the Fright Knight's castle loomed into view, and Ghost Writer had to stop and take a second glance at his surroundings.

_Well, he said that Technus' door was near the Knight's castle_. Of course, Ghost Writer hadn't expected the five-hundred or so purple doors floating around. He felt a wail of despair attempt to climb out of his throat, but all he allowed was something that sounded suspiciously like 'wibble'.

After scanning the area (or gaping in shock at all of the doors) for a moment, he noticed what looked like a TV screen attached to one of the doors. He floated up to investigate.

Words were scrolling across the screen, proclaiming: _I, Technus, Master of all things electrical and beeping am currently in the middle of delicate work. So don't annoy me without a good reason, or I shall be forced to unleash my electronic might against you!_

Ghost Writer just glared at the note in distaste. _Electronic might my – _he caught himself before he could mentally finish the sentence. He needed the egoistical ghosts' help; he had to be polite.

He reached forwards and gripped the door handle while putting his ear to the door. He didn't hear anything, so carefully opened the door and threw himself down onto the floor in case a rabid toaster leapt out and attacked him.

No toaster attacked him. A DVD player's light, however, seemed to be glaring as well as it could at him. Ghost Writer glanced around, making sure the coast was clear, before standing up and brushing some dust off of his coat.

A whizzing sound sounded in a nearby room, followed shortly by a clang and a long stream of curses in a nasally voice.

He floated over to the room where the technology-obsessed ghost's voice was coming from, and was greeted by an even more horrific sight than _an empty jar of coffee._ Yes, it was that bad.

It was pink. It had a lace hem. It had a stupidly cute kitten on the front. It was an apron, and Technus was wearing it.

Ghost Writer couldn't help it. "What in the name of Pariah Dark is that … that _thing?!!_" he yelled in horror.

Technus shrieked in horror – Ghost Writer shuddered from the wrongness of the situation – and dramatically dropped a bowl onto the floor.

"What are _you_ doing here? Didn't you see the sign on the door?" Technus yelped, snatching the bowl from the floor.

"Yes, I did, but-" he began, only to be cut off by another piercing shriek from the technology-obsessed spook.

"_Then what are you doing in here?!_" he hissed, clutching the bowl tightly.

Ghost Writer willed himself to stay calm. "I was just about to explain. First, allow me to apologise for disturbing you. Second, I am here on a matter of great importance."

Technus went pale. "The baking contest hasn't been cancelled, has it?" he asked fearfully. The writer resisted the urge to run around madly and pull his hair out in frustration.

"Not as far as I know. And it's worse than that."

"You mean-?"

"Yes."

"I can't believe it! There's no more icing left for the cupcakes! I, Technus, master of all things-" Technus was cut off from his rant by a wooden spoon sailing past his head.

"No! My keyboard is broken, and you are the only one who can fix it! Please?" Well, being polite **should** make Technus forget that he'd just lobbed a spoon at his head.

Technus placed the bowl he'd been holding down, a thoughtful look on his face. He began to stir the mixture, frowning slightly as he did so. Ghost Writer was just about to leave when Technus looked up. "How did you break it?" _Well, this is going to be slightly embarrassing._

"Well, I-"

"The truth please, Ghost Writer."

"Ok. I got a story idea, I ran to write it with a mug of coffee in my hand and … well …"

"Let me guess; you tripped on a rug and it went flying everywhere? Hah! I, Technus, would not have done that!"

Ghost Writer glared. "Can you fix it, yes or no?" he growled.

Technus puffed himself up like a threatened pufferfish. "Of course I can! I am Technus, master of all things electrical and beeping! But it will have to wait until the baking competition is over; I have to find out how to make a Carrot Cake if I want to win that competition. I **will** beat Walker this year!" he finished dramatically.

There was a slight pause, then "But in the mean time, I've got an old computer that runs Portals 98 and printer you can use instead. It's a bit slow, but it should do the trick."

Ghost Writer allowed a weary smile onto his face. "Thanks. I think I've got a book on cakes somewhere in my library; you're welcome to borrow it if you want." _Unless Walker stole it. But that would be going completely against his rules … but he is __very__ competitive when it comes to cake baking._

Technus beamed. "I, Technus, think I will borrow this book of cakes and wipe the floor with Walker's-!"

"Where's that computer you mentioned then?" Ghost Writer said loudly while pushing Technus out of the kitchen (avoiding the horrible thing called an apron), quite effectively cutting Technus off.

* * *

Ghost Writer smiled happily. It had taken quite a while, but in that time his fried keyboard had been taken away, Technus had wired the computer up, and he'd been able to savour the silence in his home once the annoying ghost had gone. But he couldn't help think he'd forgotten something … no, probably nothing important.

He pulled a chair up to the computer anyway and sat down. He stared at the screen, before a question wormed its way into his mind.

"Where's the on button?" He _knew _he'd forgotten something.

* * *

**Hope you liked!**

**Thank you to **_PotterPhantomKitten, Manyara _**and** _Hordak's Pupil _**for reviewing the last chapter!**


	7. Portals 98

Deepest apologies for the lateness (and shortness) of this chapter. Life got in the way, but I have a lot of the next chapter written/planned out already. Enjoy.

I don't own Danny Phantom or the Microsoft company.

**P.S. If you have a phobia of the evil little paperclip that offers 'help' at every oppurtunity in Microsoft Word ... turn back now.**

* * *

Half an hour later, Ghost Writer had managed to find the 'on' button by pure luck – his elbow had bumped against the button, sparing him another trip to Technus' home.

_Thank everything holy I don't have to go back and see that obnoxious idiot again. I've had enough of him for the next few decades,_ he thought. He probably didn't want to go back and risk seeing the apron of horrors again.

As the computer whirred as it started up, Ghost Writer stared at it unhappily. He wasn't that fond of technology (another reason why he didn't have the greatest friendship in the world with Technus). The closest he got to technology was his keyboard, but that wasn't as technologically advanced as most ghosts thought. Of course it didn't stop the odd few from thinking it was from another planet, or some other nonsense.

The sudden appearance of a blue background brought him back out of his little world, and he focused on the screen. Wiggling the mouse just a little bit, he began to click some of the buttons in the order Technus had told him to.

Just as he found the program he was looking for, the cursor stopped moving. He moved the mouse again. No response from the cursor. A small bubble popped up in the corner of the screen.

'**Something is wrong with the computer hardware.'**

"I know that" Ghost Writer snarled. _I hate technology…_

'**Click this bubble for more information.'**

… _and technology hates me._

"How am I meant to click it if the cursor won't move?!" the yell echoed around the room. "Stupid computer!"

Said stupid computer responded by crashing.

Computer one, Ghost Writer nil.

Another half hour later saw the stressed writer clutching the screen in his hands, muttering feverishly under his breath (the score had just turned twenty-seven – nil to the computer. Ghost Writer was not impressed). Every time it started up, something would go wrong and it insisted on crashing.

He took a deep, though useless, breath. Well, it helped calm him a little.

The buttons were clicked slowly, with Ghost Writer half-expecting the cursor to stop moving again.

It kept working. A small spark of hope began to burn brighter.

He clicked the program name. It loaded up without incident.

A bonfire of hope raged within him.

He went to type …

And a small cartoon paperclip with eyes popped up in the corner of the screen. **Would you like any help?** the text above it said.

Ghost Writer scowled, then clicked no. He didn't want any help! It was his story, not the paperclips.

**Are you sure?** It asked.

_Yes_! He clicked with a bit more force than was necessary.

The paperclip mercifully vanished, and a small smile settled on the corner of his lips. Right. Where was he again? A quick scan of his notes and he was off again. He began typing away, and soon came to the end of the chapter, where a mysterious letter was found in the story. He typed the opening words, before going to click save -

**You seem to be writing a letter. Would you like help with writing the letter?** The paperclip reappeared out of nowhere.

"Away, tiny computerised demon!" Ghost Writer yelled, oblivious to the fact that the paperclip had no ability with which to hear him.

The paperclip then gave another option; go back into hiding where it could pounce again, or go away completely and not bother him again for as long as he was writing.

Three guesses what one he chose.

He selected the turn off option. Or rather, he attempted to, for unwelcome words appeared on the screen.

**Portals Text has found a problem and has been forced to close. Oh dear. Hope you saved your work, or you're stuffed.** The computer then proceeded to (once again) crash.

There was a tense silence.

The computer went out the window.

* * *

Thank you to **witchdoctor42 **and **Hordak's Pupil** for reviewing the last chapter! 


	8. Interlude: The Wrath of Technus

And here is the next installment of the Trials of Writing, eventually written out in between bouts of revision and coursework. Hope you enjoy anyhow!

As usual, I don't own Danny Phantom.

EDIT: Someone pointed out a bit that didn't really make sense, so I've changed that particular sentence.

* * *

Ghost Writer stared at the now broken window, thinking of various ways to stop the paperclip returning, and what he should tell Technus happened to his computer that he kindly lent the Writer.

He was interrupted by loud bangs from the front door. He stormed off towards the noise, muttering and glaring along the way (he made sure to glare at the window before setting off though).

The knocks increased in noise and frequency.

Ghost Writer growled in annoyance before yelling "Alright, alright! I'm nearly the- " but he was cut off by the door being ripped off of its hinges and smashing into a vase.

_That was a present from my Grandma!_ he thought angrily.

"GHOST WRITER!" Skulker bellowed as he stepped through the doorframe. The ghost in question had a sneaking suspicion that Skulker was not happy about something.

An expensive-looking painting fell off the wall. Ghost Writer winced unhappily as it hit the floor with a loud **clang!**

Skulker caught sight of his prey and stalked over to him, clutching something in his mechanical hand. Whatever it was, it was sparking and had a faint wisp of smoke coming off of it.

The hunter stopped a few feet away from the shorter ghost and gave a smile that chilled Ghost Writer to his core.

"Why hello, Ghost Writer. Do you know why I am here?" Skulker's voice came out as though he was merely discussing the weather pleasantly with a friend.

"N-no …" Ghost Writer squeaked out.

Skulker's grin went impossibly wider. "Then I shall tell you. I was happily returning home after a good days hunt, and was passing by your window when I heard a crashing sound."

Ghost Writer gulped. He had a faint idea what may have happened.

Skulker continued. "Imagine my surprise when my suit detected some damage done to the skull area" here, he gestured to a rather nasty-looking dent that had extinguished almost half of his flaming hair "and imagine my even greater surprise when I found the cause floating innocently next to me." The self-proclaimed greatest hunter held out one hand.

And in that hand were the sparking, smoking remains of Technus' spare computer. Ghost Writer felt slightly ill. _This can't be good …_

Ghost Writer decided to be dignified about this.

"Don't hurt me!" he wailed as he covered his head with his arms. If he'd had his keyboard, he would have been able to make Skulker forget this or repair the computer! Well, actually, he wouldn't even be in this situation!

"Oh don't worry. I wasn't planning on it. However, I believe that we should pay a quick visit to Technus. I'm sure he'll be happy to see what you've done to his computer."

"It's, erm, not his computer?" Ghost Writer offered meekly. Skulker rolled his eyes.

"Of _course _it's not. That's why it's not got 'Property of Technus, master of all things electronic and beeping' stamped on the bottom of it. Now _**move!"**_

* * *

"Wait there." Skulker said gruffly, before turning back to the shaking Writer "and hold this" the remains of the computer (now emitting a soft fizzing noise) were unceremoniously shoved into the Writer's hands as Skulker knocked on Technus' door, not bothering to read the message that was still scrolling across the screen.

There was a shout that spoke of someone who was already in a bad mood from inside, and Ghost Writer felt what little hope and courage he had left curl up and refuse to speak to him.

The door opened sharply, revealing Technus with the apron of nightmares back on.

"Skulker?" Technus raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "Why are you here?" Another pause and a quick glance at the skull of the suit the green glob of ectoplasm wore. "And what happened to your suit?"

Skulker grinned savagely, motioning Ghost Writer nearer.

"It's an amusing story, I must say, and one I think you'll enjoy. Ghost Writer, if you would be so kind as to come a little closer?"

Technus raised the other eyebrow, and then they both dropped into a frown as he caught sight of the disturbingly familiar remains sparking and fizzing in the authors grasp.

"I think you'd better come inside and sit down." His voice was laced with venom.

* * *

After Ghost Writer had been chased around by a psychotic waffle iron and a lamp for forty-five minutes, Technus had calmed down (or gone crazy) enough to call them off and give Ghost Writer a laptop, a printer, detailed instructions to do with it and a swift boot out of his home, accompanied by a thinly veiled threat on what would happen in the event of more precious technology being damaged. Skulker, thankfully, had left when the waffle iron came out, saying he had an 'important meeting he couldn't get out of' to go to.

Ghost Writer wondered if he had a phobia of waffles.

So after putting the laptop and printer down (on several cushions; Ghost Writer wasn't going to take chances), he found himself in need of a **hot**, _soothing _drink.

* * *

_With me around, this coffee shop is __never__ going to go out of business _he grumbled in his mind as he entered the comfy establishment yet again. It seemed pretty quiet; there was only a few ghosts scattered around in the squishy seats, all looking content. Ghost Writer blinked as he continued on his way to the counter and a hot cup of coffee. He surely hadn't just seen a miserable-looking Clockwork pouring what looked like a Mocha into a silver-and-green thermos, had he?

_Stranger things have happened _he told himself. He ordered his drink, paid, and left to set up the laptop (that was not to be broken under any circumstances) and printer (that didn't matter so much, but it would be best if it was returned in one piece).

As he passed Clockwork, he wondered if he should ask if there was going to be any more problems. A quick glance showed that the all-knowing ghost was having problems of his own, as the thermos was now asking – no, **demanding** a slice of chocolate cake in a very loud voice.

Besides, he'd had more than his fair share of bad luck and misfortune lately. Surely he wouldn't get any more.

Right?

* * *

I want some chocolate cake now.

A huge thank you to witchdoctor42. TPcrazy, Hordak's Pupil, Manyara and sciencefreak330 for reviewing the last chapter!


	9. Printer Woes

**Well, I'm nearly finished all my exams (only five more to go) and I've managed to save enough brain cells to be able to write this chapter. I'll stop before I get rambling.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything recognisable, they all belong to their respective owners.**

The laptop and printer combination, along with Technus' instructions, had proved to be remarkably simple to set up – apparently, all the software needed was present and installed, including the printer. Best of all, the 'on' button had been in plain sight. Ghost Writer was sure that he'd heard a choir of angels singing.

The only sounds that could be heard now was the tapping of keys, sounding like the soft pitter-patter of rain and the rustle of paper as it slid neatly out of the printer.

A page snagged on the edge of the printer, and promptly jammed the machine, making a horrible noise that disturbed the peace in the process.

Several minutes were spent trying to free the piece of paper in a bizarre wrestling match between printer and poet. After a few (okay, lots of) strong pulls and a string of Shakespearean insults, the printer gave up its prize and waited for another page to print, humming in an innocent and almost cheeky way.

Ghost Writer stuck the mangled paper in the bin as he yawned – he'd empty it later. But for now, a short nap was in order.

* * *

Forty winks later and the rainfall typing had resumed. Another chapter was completed and sent to print, but no rustle of paper announced that the printer had done its job nor was there a scrunching sound that said the printer was chewing the paper.

Ghost Writer closed his eyes, counted to ten, and glanced over hesitantly through half-closed eyes.

There was no paper.

Ghost Writer gave an almost relieved sigh. That was ok. He knew where he could find paper. The shop wasn't too far from here. It would be fine.

_Of course it will, because everything else has gone so smoothly_ a sarcastic voice drawled.

Ghost Writer ignored the voice.

* * *

Thankfully for Ghost Writer's sanity, everything **had** gone smoothly at the office supplies shop. The crazy cashier was on their lunch break _and_ paper had been on a buy one get one free offer, so he had got the last two packets of paper in the shop. So there was no way the printer was going to run out of paper soon. Humming happily, Ghost Writer floated out into the expanse of the Ghost Zone and swapping the bag containing the paper into his other hand so he could adjust his glasses.

"Arf!"

Looking down showed that a small green dog was staring up at him, tongue hanging out and tail wagging happily. "Arf!" it yapped again.

Ghost Writer looked around too see if the dog had an owner. There was no other ghost in his sight, which could mean that the dog either had no owner or was lost. Spotting a black collar circling the dog's neck, he bent down to see if it had an address on it.

The puppy took the opportunity to slobber all over his face and, while Ghost Writer fished around in his pocket for a tissue, steal the bag right out of his hand.

There was a pause in which Ghost Writer calmly stood up and wiped his face and glasses clean. This was followed by another pause in which he turned until he saw the dog racing off, bag clutched firmly in its mouth.

"NO! Bad dog! Bring the bag back!" he cried desperately, tearing after the rapidly disappearing puppy.

As Ghost Writer chased after the puppy, he had to avoid floating purple doors, random chunks of rock and at one point had to swerve violently to avoid being hit by a large glob of dough that was flying out of a window of the Old Hall, accompanied with the sounds of a fight.

But the stressed poet didn't take much notice; the dog had made a sharp turn and disappeared through a swirling green portal. Ghost Writer dodged around yet another blob of purple and shot through the portal, putting on an extra burst of speed which was quickly stopped when he smashed into a counter.

"Arf!"

The sound was faint, but it was enough to get him going again. Walking up a set of stairs nearby, he came out into a richly furnished library.

"Arf!"

The yapping was louder, so Ghost Writer quickly floated towards a set of double doors. Pausing only to make himself invisible (he didn't want any humans seeing him) he went through the doors and continued after the puppy.

After wandering in the vague direction of the puppy's barking for a while Ghost Writer eventually found him chewing on a football, having abandoned the bag at the foot of a grand staircase.

Ghost Writer looked around. It was a large room that was in a bit of a mess, probably due to the dog going on a mad dash around it. A few small pedestals were broken and lying in pieces on the ground, while shards of glass littered the floor along with shirts, torn photos and various other items that were probably once housed in the (once) glass-fronted cabinets that lined the edge of the room. Opposite the staircase was an enormous set of double doors, which meant that they were probably the entrance.

In other circumstances, Ghost Writer wouldn't have been worried about the mess or the desecration of personal belongings. However, the fact that everything was in green and gold and it was Green Bay Packer memorabilia thrown all over the room **had** caused a large alarm bell to ring in his head. Namely one that shrieked "_Plasmius! RUN, you idiot!_"

He practically teleported to the bag in his haste to get away. Vlad Plasmius was known for being cunning, ruthless, manipulative and extremely protective of his Packers collection.

Ghost Writer stopped halfway towards the exit of the room. The puppy was still chewing happily on the football, not really caring that it had just completely trashed the most prized possessions of Vlad Plasmius, who was probably going to very angry when he returned.

There was a sound from outside. The sound of car wheels stopping, and then a car door being opened and shut.

He ran across to the dog, picked it up and ran for his afterlife, trying desperately to remember where the portal was.

As he ran, Ghost Writer faintly heard the _creak _of a heavy door opening and quickly being shut soon after. _5 … 4 … 3 … 2 …_

"**What in the name of butter biscuits happened to my Packers collection?!**" thundered Vlad.

Ghost Writer, even though he was fleeing at enormous speed, found the time to giggle quietly to himself. _Butter biscuits? Who would say __**butter biscuits**__ at a time like this?_

Soon enough, he found a room he recognised; the library. The once-secret door was still open, so that probably meant the puppy had somehow jammed it open. Ghost Writer didn't really care. He just flew down the steps and went through the portal, bag and puppy cradled in his arms, pausing only to wrestle the ball from the dog's mouth and chuck it behind him.

* * *

Once he felt safe enough to stop flying Ghost Writer alighted on a small chunk of rock and set the dog down.

"Arf!" it barked again, tail still wagging in happiness. He gave it a fond smile and patted it on the head, making sure that it didn't run off with his bag again.

"Go on, then. Go find your owner or your friends. And stay out of trouble!" he told the little puppy. It simply looked at him before giving another sharp yap and running off into the green swirls of the Ghost Zone.

Ghost Writer sighed before flying off towards his home and the next chapter of his poem, going past all the purple and green and rocks again.

When he finally got there, he immediately noticed something was unusual. "Hm? What's this?" he asked no-one in particular.

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter! (I'm not too happy with it, but I don't think I can do much better)**

Thank you to _TPCrazy, Hordak's Pupil, sciencefreak330, witchdoctor42_ and _Moonlight Umbreon_ for reviewing the last chapter!


	10. Fears, Cheers and Tears

**Sorry for any mistakes in this chapter, my sleeping habits are all messed up at the moment and I'm quite tired. I'm away next week for about 10 days, without access to a computer but I'll have my trusty notepad with me just in case.**

**As usual, DP still belongs to Butch Hartman and not me.**

* * *

Stuck to his door was a neon green square. Ghost Writer approached it cautiously, not taking his eyes off of it in case it turned out to be some form of ghost that liked eating paper.

It turned out to be made of paper itself; it was an offensively bright green post-it note (that was absurdly large for a post-it) that had been scribbled on in black ink. Ghost Writer took the note off the door and wandered inside. After filling the printer up with fresh paper and safely storing the rest, he started tapping away again.

* * *

Two hours later saw Ghost Writer happily print out the last remaining page of his current chapter. He placed the pages with the others reverently in a desk draw (which was promptly locked), and then picked the chapter notes up and stashed them away for future reference. His mood was surprisingly optimistic and content, with nothing bad having happened in the past few hours to him or his poem (he didn't count getting nearly caught by Vlad Plasmius after the destruction of his Packers collection because he hadn't actually been caught).

A few short, sharp knocks rapped at his study door. Before Ghost Writer could get out of his chair to go to the door to find out who - or what - was in his home uninvited, the door came to greet him.

With a grunt of pain he toppled off of the chair, sending ghost, chair and newly-detached door crashing down to the floor. A white blob moved from what he guessed was the doorway and came to a stop next to him, making no move to help the struggling Writer out from under the door.

After lots of wriggling, Ghost Writer managed to squirm his way out from under the door. Once free, he realised there was another problem.

His glasses were gone.

Everything was just a blur of colour. So he did the only thing he could think of. He turned to the impassive blob that was still just watching (if it had eyes), and said timidly "Um, you haven't seen my glasses have you?"

There was an awkward moment where Ghost Writer felt extremely uncomfortable, as the shape did nothing. Then it moved, and Ghost Writer felt the cool metal of his glasses press into his palm.

"Ah, thank you" he mumbled, hurrying to put them on. He soon dropped into an irritated mood after accidentally poking himself in the eye. "And just **who** do you think you … are …" he trailed off as his vision became clear once more, and fear clouded it instead.

A sharp-toothed grin appeared on the face of the intruder. "My name is Plasmius, Vlad Plasmius, but I'm sure you already knew that from your horrified expression" he remarked with a smug air.

"Oh. Um, in such case, how may I help you?" _Please don't blame me for the destruction and general mess that is your Packers collection. Please may someone have mercy on me._

The grin slid off of his face. "I'm here" the billionaire's tone became frosty "about the destruction and general mess that is my Packers collection."

… _Oh, Sense and Sensibility!_ He cursed mentally. Vlad's glare turned even more deadly. Then a smirk formed, and he prowled slowly over to one of the many bookcases lining the room, one of several that contained first-edition and rare manuscripts. "Nice book collection by the way."

As Vlad reached out with ectoplasmic energy curling around his fingertips, Ghost Writer lunged for him. "**Wait!**" he shrieked loudly (he could sense that damage would be done if Vlad was not appeased) and Vlad paused, the pink energy still in his palm.

"What if … I gave you … one of the books … from my collection?" Ghost Writer said, having to pause due to the adrenaline coursing through his ghostly veins (it wasn't everyday he fought or did something like this – he was quite happy cooped up in his study with his keyboard when it wasn't broken, not going out and haunting places and getting into fights).

Vlad stepped back from the bookcase, though he still allowed the ectoblast to remain in his palm. "You have exactly one minute to find a suitable book - starting now" and he pulled out a watch to time him. Ghost Writer scurried off, darting around the room until he found what he was looking for. He rushed back to Vlad and proudly presented him with the book.

There was a pause, in which Vlad let the ectoblast dissolve and took the book. "Is it…?" he asked, not daring to finish the sentence.

Ghost Writer nodded, stepping back from Vlad just in case. Said man looked up. "The Packers Through History: A Photographic Journey?" Another nod. "And it's signed" Vlad murmured as he flicked through the pages before gently closing the book and tucking it safely under his arm.

"In light of this, your book collection is safe." Vlad strode to past the desk, and then half-turned. "Your computer is not though." And with those words, he knocked the computer and printer off of the desk and blasted them, leaving only melted metal and plastic in the middle of the floor. "Good day" he said, and smartly turned on his heel and left.

Ghost Writer simply looked at the smouldering pile in the middle of the floor. _Technus is not going to be happy_ he thought glumly.

* * *

Once he'd had enough moping, he shuffled over to his desk again and picked the chair up before slumping in it again. Gently he put his arms on the smooth surface and let his head fall onto them.

Something tacked onto his nose and he sat bolt upright, scrabbling to get it off. It turned out to be the vibrant post-it, still intact though a little crumpled. Ghost Writer smoothed it out, and then read it.

Or at least he tried to. The – he hesitated to call it writing – ink was just splattered all over the giant post-it. He sighed and switched a light on. This could take some time …

* * *

Finally the code was cracked. Ghost Writer picked up the bit of paper he had written the message on in his own neat handwriting.

**Ghost Writer **(it read)**,**

**I, Technus, master of all things electronic and beeping have finished repairing your keyboard ahead of schedule due to a GLORIOUS baking victory that only I could accomplish. Come and collect it as soon as possible (It's taking up the space for my shiny trophy)!**

**Technus, master of all things electronic and beeping.**

Hope crawled out of the box deep within him and rose, filling him with a bubbly cheerfulness and banishing misery and muting the pain of having to give a rare book away.. The keyboard was repaired. It was ready to be used again, and he would never have to face temperamental printers and demonic, overly-helpful paperclips ever again!

Needless to say, he went to get the keyboard immediately.

* * *

He'd arrived at Technus' in half the time it usually took him to get there, excitement lending him the extra speed. He battered on the door with his fists, and in his delirious mood didn't think to stop when Technus opened the door.

"Ah Ghost Writer – mrph!" the technology-obsessed ghost grunted as he was smacked square in the face. That seemed to snap Ghost Writer out of his cheery trance.

"Sorry!" he cried immediately, but Technus waved his hand dismissively.

"No worries, Writer." He pulled a spare pair of glasses out of the pocket of his lab coat, replacing the broken ones that had been mashed to his nose. "Come on in, sit down" Ghost Writer floated on the spot, his good mood ebbing away slightly. This was … unusual for Technus. Maybe he should come back later, when Technus had resumed being his loud, dramatic self.

Well, there was one way to test if Technus was his usual self. Carefully glancing around for rabid electrical devices as Technus motioned again for him to come in, he said "your laptop and printer -"

"Got trashed by Plasmius in revenge for his Packers collection." Technus grinned, looking at the Writer in a kind of awe "how **did** you do it? You completely obliterated one-of-a-kind merchandise, and then he tracks you down and leaves you – and your priceless collection of unique books – unharmed." Technus flopped into an armchair before gripping the sides and leaning forwards. "How?" he whispered. "Even I, **the great Technus**, would not have been able to accomplish this amazing feat!" he finished in his usual, dramatic voice.

"For a start, **I** didn't destroy his collection. It was this glowing, green puppy that ran off with the paper I needed for the printer. And I gave him one of my books" Ghost Writer supplied.

Technus looked shocked. "You, Ghost Writer, who is known for being highly possessive of your books, freely _gave one away_?!"

"It was only a Packers book" he grumbled "and it was mainly photos. Not my kind of book."

Technus merely shook his head in amazement. "Note to self; if I ever get into trouble with Plasmius, find a random little object with a link to the Packers."

Ghost Writer frowned. "That book was a signed and limited edition I'll have you know." The other ghost held his hands up in a pacifying gesture. "I didn't mean anything by it. Shall we go sort the keyboard out, then?"

The happy mood returned. "Yes please" he said pleasantly, and followed Technus.

* * *

Ghost Writer waved a slight thanks to Technus, then turned and practically skipped back to his study. He arrived and looked at the center of the room. The Quantum Keyboard stood proudly in the middle, floating a few inches off of the floor and nearly gleaming in the lights dotted around the room.

He floated over and sat in the seat, running his hands over the surface of the desk before he typed out the chapter title. He picked up his notes and scanned them briefly, then set them down and rested his fingers on the keys, waiting for the first word to form.

He started tapping away a moment later, only to pause, read the words and then delete what he'd written. This process continued, and when Ghost Writer next went to get another coffee he noticed the time. That was when the dread started to creep back.

_Four and a half hours_ he mouthed silently. _Four and a half hours and I haven't been able to write a single word, let alone a sentence._

He finished pouring the coffee and stumbled over to a chair, slumping in it slightly and burying his head in his hands as tears of frustration slid down his cheeks.

He'd got his keyboard back … and had gotten a free dose of writer's block with it.

* * *

**I feel really bad now, I got his hopes up twice this chapter (Vlad and keyboard) only to get them trampled into the ground.**

**A couple of notes:**

**1 - Lancer isn't the only one who shouts book titles out, it seems.**

**2 - The hope and box imagery is a reference to the legend of Pandora's box (I'm on a greek mythology kick at the moment)**

**3 - As far as I know, there is no Packers book like that.  
**

**Thanks to _MoonlightUmbreon, Manyara, witchdoctor42 _and_ TPcrazy (you have wished it, so it was!)_**

* * *


	11. Interlude: Breaking the Block

**A huge sorry for taking so long to get this chapter out - let me just say, the jump in standards and the workload from GCSE to A Level was a shock to the system.**

**Again, I don't own Danny Phantom (or Malteasers).  
**

* * *

Ghost Writer sat slumped in his seat for a long time, staring blankly at the surface of the table. Slowly he sat up, wincing as his back made its protests known before sluggishly moving over towards the counter where his now ice-cold coffee was.

He flicked the kettle on again and poured the coffee down the sink robotically, moving on autopilot because his mind was busy churning with all kinds of negative thoughts and emotions.

The _click_ of the kettle and the sound of bubbling water prompted him to make another cup of coffee, and once that was finished he went back to the table where he pulled out a notebook and pen from his pocket.

Bending over the paper slightly, he wrote at the top 'breaking the block'. Tapping the pen against his cheek thoughtfully, he proceeded to think of something that could help rid him of the evil block. A few thoughts came to him and he scribbled them down eagerly. _One of them should be able to help me_, he thought. _But some of them may require me to go to Earth ... If it breaks the block, then it's worth it!_

He nodded, drained his cup of coffee and set off to begin his war against the block.

* * *

Ghost Writer settled down in his favourite armchair, immediately sinking into the squishy cushion. He looked over to the small end table beside him. Cup of coffee? Check. Huge pile of books? Check. Log fire? Check. He allowed himself a small smile before settling into his chair and taking _The Hobbit_ off of the pile.

Many hours later saw him put _The Return of the King_ down with an annoyed sigh. Yes, he'd managed to re-read some of his favourite books and that **had **cheered him up a little, but it still hadn't broken the block. He glanced over at the remaining books. _Of Mice and Men, Dracula, Frankenstein_ and others waited for him to read them, but if _The Hobbit_ hadn't worked then nothing in the world of literature would. Okay, that was probably over-exaggerating, but he didn't really care. This was writer's block and therefore was extremely serious, so he could over-exaggerate and be as dramatic as he pleased.

Sighing, he picked the books and his bookmark up (dog-earing the pages was an inexcusable crime in his eyes) and went to return them to their rightful places. He'd try again later maybe but … he yawned widely, he'd have to get some sleep first. Maybe he'd get some ideas from his dreams …

Eight hours later, Ghost Writer woke up feeling distinctly uninspired. The block was still in place and was showing no sign of letting up anytime soon. He sighed and felt around for his glasses, putting them on once they'd been located. Mumbling something about sledgehammers and smashing annoying blocks he turned over and-

THUMP!

-fell out of the bed, smacking his head against the bedside table in the process and prompting a rain of small objects to fall on him.

"Ouch!" he gasped as something particularly sharp glanced off of his temple. He waited for a couple of seconds, before warily opening his left eye and making sure no more objects were waiting to attack him. There wasn't, so he sat up and looked around at the mess. A bit of blank paper and a pen (in case of story ideas in the middle of the night), a clock, a CD and several other small items were all scattered around.

He shuffled over to the CD, suddenly curious about it. Maybe it was calming music? Hopefully it was _something_ like that. The small white font at the bottom of the cover read _'Gustav Holst: The Planets Suite'_. Ghost Writer's eyes widened and he stood up, carrying the CD with him. If his memory was correct, then the music was good for thinking about different emotions, and that might break his writer's block. With that thought in mind (along with a hopeful feeling), he went and rummaged around in the closet for his old CD player.

_Well, at least this is easier to work than that computer was_ he thought as he simply plugged the stereo in and switched on the power. He pressed 'play', and then went to get ready.

So far, so good. The music had been helping Ghost Writer a lot - not only was he feeling calmer and happier, but faint images about his story were beginning to form in the back of his mind.

This all ended with the fourth track, which was _Mars – The Bringer of War_. A few seconds into the song, and Ghost Writer's good mood was already starting to drop sharply into the 'angry, irritated and generally frustrated' category and the ideas were rapidly disappearing.

The music also rapidly disappeared when Ghost Writer put his foot straight through the CD player, effectively breaking both it and the CD and giving himself an electric shock. He pulled his foot back, looking extremely frazzled, and decided that maybe music **wasn't** going to help him.

* * *

Once he had managed to remove the frazzled look from his face and stopped his hair smoking slightly, he stumbled into the kitchen and snatched up the notepad with his list of solutions written on it. He scribbled out the word 'music' with a bit too much force, breaking through the paper. He then calmly crossed out read, but did write a note to maybe try it again later.

He consulted the list, searching for his next potential saviour.

"Go out somewhere." He read aloud. Well that was a bit vague. He tapped his chin thoughtfully, wondering where that 'somewhere' could be.

_It needs to be a place that I wouldn't usually go to – so I'd need to go to Earth, then … there isn't much to do in this part of the Ghost Zone._ He got up and went to prepare for a trip into the human world.

* * *

Ghost Writer grinned happily. He was currently standing on the edge of a busy pavement (intangible and invisible, so he didn't get pushed onto the equally busy road in front of him) looking at the cream-coloured building on the other side of the street. Lights lit the front, the double doors were wide open and welcoming and there were lots of posters covering the walls.

It was a theatre and, when Ghost Writer floated across and looked at several of the colourful posters, he saw that there were a few plays lined up for the year – Romeo and Juliet, Grease and the Phantom of the Opera being shown that month. There were really only two options for Ghost Writer out of the three.

_Hmm … Shakespeare or Leroux; that is the question._

He mentally debated for a few minutes. He knew both books well and enjoyed them both, but he had read the Phantom of the Opera recently. He brightened up. Maybe if he saw the book acted out – brought to life - it would give him an idea? It was possible.

_The Phantom of the Opera it is then._

_

* * *

_

Ghost Writer happily settled himself in the worn red chair, putting his drink and bag of toffees to one side. This was why he liked being a ghost sometimes – no need to pay for food, drinks or seats and no waiting in long lines.

He glanced around his surroundings. There were a few people milling around, finding seats and chatting with one another. He hummed to himself quietly, watching them out of the corner of his eye. As long as no-one sat too close to him he'd be fine; he **hated** people getting too close to him. It made him jumpy and nervous, and he did not like that.

As for the theatre itself … it certainly looked like it had seen better days. There were cobwebs hanging off of columns and lights, and if he made the slightest movement a small mushroom cloud of dust erupted from the chair. The curtains were made of what would once have been crimson velvet, but were now faded and scruffy. Plus they were covered in marks from what looked like drinks and food that had been thrown at the stage. But Ghost Writer was willing to give it a chance. The saying was 'never judge a book by its cover', so maybe the performance would be fantastic and the marks made by people throwing their things in happiness. His thinking was cut short by the doors shutting and the curtains drawing back, squeaking annoyingly as they did so.

* * *

_Why does nothing __**ever**__ seem to go right?_ He wailed in his thoughts half an hour later. He was currently crouched down on the floor, shielding himself between chairs as milkshakes, ice cream, chocolates and many other types of food soared through the air to land with wet _splats_ on the wooden stage.

One of the theatre staff bravely ran up and stood in the middle of the stage. "Ladies, gentlemen, please refrain from throwing food and drink during the performance!" he cried.

He was quickly chased off of the stage by a barrage of Malteasers.

Ghost Writer risked peeking above the seat. Seeing no deadly bullets of chocolate speeding towards him, he glanced around at the chaos surrounding him. There were pieces of chocolate and toffee and popcorn flying through the air, ricocheting off of chairs and unfortunate people's heads; drinks flew through the air gracelessly, spilling their contents over the carpet, chairs and some of the audience. Something _whooshed_ over his head and he was treated to a milkshake shower.

He decided that now was the time to make his escape, but there were quite a few people near him. They would see if he turned invisible, and if something went through him when he was intangible they wouldn't be able to ignore that.

As discreetly as possible (so he didn't look like an actor or member of staff trying to escape and so incur the wrath of the audience) he began to wriggle his way through the labyrinth of chair legs, dodging the puddles of drink gathered on the floor.

A few minutes later he had reached a corner in the hall, and satisfied that no-one could see him he turned invisible and intangible. He floated up to get a good look at the chaos that still reigned.

The cobwebs on the lights and columns had been dislodged by the projectiles, and the curtains were even scruffier than they were to begin with as they were covered with fresh food and drink marks mixed in with the old ones.

As he watched he noticed a couple of people storm out, only to return a minute later with armfuls of fresh ammunition and begin to once again throw it all over the place, then at an actor who had poked his head out from behind the curtain. Ghost Writer allowed himself a small chuckle as he floated out of the theatre, mentally vowing to never return.

* * *

Once he had gotten home and cleaned himself of all the food and dust that had found it's way onto him during his crawl through the chairs, he sat down at the kitchen table again and pulled the notepad towards him. He crossed out theatre, and also noted to avoid the one he had just visited.

He stared blankly at the remaining items on the list. Play a video game (so he'd have to go to an arcade somewhere), go shopping or go to a sports match. None of them appealed to him at the present moment, but he wanted to break the block so desperately he was willing to try them even if he didn't want to. As he thought about it, he scribbled randomly in the corner of the page.

After ten minutes of getting nowhere, he got up and went to get some coffee. While he was making it, he still couldn't decide what choice to make – he didn't want to go to an arcade (Technus might be there and the apron was still burned into his mind), shopping didn't appeal to him and there was no way he was going to a sports match – knowing his luck he'd go to a Packers match and end up near Vlad, who he didn't want to see again in a hurry.

He sat back down and looked at his paper, then nearly fell off the chair when he laid eyes on his random scribbles. He scrambled back up so he could have another look. What he'd drawn was certainly not a masterpiece; it was a few stick figures and some dodgy backgrounds, but it had caused a sledgehammer of inspiration to smack him straight between the eyes.

He took off for his study immediately, leaving his coffee behind. He had inspiration now and nothing else mattered.

* * *

**Again, sorry for taking so long. Hope you enjoyed it at least a little!**

**Thank you very much to **_ScarletNaruto, MoonlightUmbreon, witchdoctor42_ **and** _Hordak's Pupil_ **for reviewing the last chapter!**


End file.
